Yodel

by Ashley Hudson


Affix a thumb to a corner,
humming bird wind.
You say it over and over

because you want to mean it
when it sticks and keeps shape.
Because you want the well to hold

the wind, snake aching off its skin,
strangle between well carved into hill,
the well trapping the wind.

Bird wing beat, a chest noise.
Birdsong reversing where
head noise might begin.

But what you say changes color.
Still, you know fresh cut hay,
worm-ridden calf, the hill

reminds you of Heidi
and somehow the taste of tin.
This is the hillside tomb

where you might begin to sing.
But what you say
and what you mean are twin

siblicide again. You say it
over and over, affix a thought
to a corner. Your mind, tinted wind.

You know a well swallows water,
a long lost haul. You know the hill
questions through hollers. You know
the valley talks back.